


Laid and Paid

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: M/M, Rentboy Eggsy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3919090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy's life is actually Pretty Woman. Well, more or less. Too bad he hasn't seen the film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laid and Paid

There's worse things in life than freezing his balls off on the corner of Smith Street. One of the other boys offered him a smoke a while ago but Eggsy’d said no. Wishes he hadn't now, because it'd have taken his mind off the fucking wind. There's six of them here, scuffing their feet up and down the pavement, shoulders hunched up against the cold; business is slow.

People walking down the street cross to avoid them like they’re dangerous, which makes Eggsy laugh inappropriately; his breath puffs out in front of him, grey and swirling. They're not a fucking gang, not like Dean's lot. Fucks' sake, Mark over there flinches if anyone gestures too much when they're talking to him. They're just here to get laid and paid.

A cab drives up to them – obvious because it's the middle of the fucking night so there's no traffic and no excuse to slow down if it weren't for them lot stood there – and Eggsy lowers his shoulders, shivering as the wind slithers across his chest. He's wearing a t-shirt, no jacket, because they always get lost once the clothes come off and no one wants a rent boy scrabbling around their room looking for clothes once they're done with them. He's not wearing socks or pants either. Yeah. It's fucking cold.

Anyway. A car pulls up, some horribly gaudy electric blue thing, and the window rolls down to reveal one of Dean's boys - not his main crew because if he's hanging around here looking for boys then he's not nearly straight enough for Dean's inner circle, but still - and everyone suddenly pretends to be real interested in the tops of their shoes, because he is a shit john. He likes to leave scratch marks and palm prints and bruises that last for bloody days, and more than once Eggsy's gone home with a ruined t-shirt.

Worse, business isn't exactly booming enough for them to turn him down. He looks them over like they're prize pitbulls or something and leers as he looks them up and down, even though Eggsy knows that he's had at least three of them before already.

"You," he says after a while, and Eggsy mentally groans. Eggsy really doesn’t fancy getting open wounds tonight. The bruises, he don't mind. He can get those at home for free. He's not a grass on anyone, even wankers like this, but he's seriously contemplated dobbing him in to Dean. Trouble is, chances are he's the one who'd end up getting the crap beaten out of him at some point.

Also, outing someone is just crap, really.

"Don't make that fucking face at me, you little shit. I'm a paying customer and the customer's always right, inn'e?" He grabs Eggsy arm, never mind the fact that Eggsy's hardly going to get into the car through the door.

"Fuck off," growls Eggsy, pulling at him, but his hand clamps around until his fingers dig into Eggsy's wrist and makes it go numb. Well shit, those are the first bruises of the night.

In the distance, there's the screech of tyres, and they all reflexively make to dive into the alley down the street in case it's the cops, but it's... well, it's definitely not the cops.

A cab speeds towards them, and it's one of them posh black ones from central London, not the usual taxi round these parts. It skids to a stop bare inches from the back of the blue jag and everyone sort of whistles, impressed. Well, except the owner, who shouts, "The fuck, you knob?!"

The door opens, and there’s some posh fucker in a suit and glasses, who just says tersely, “If you could kindly get in the car.”

The six of them on the street exchange looks.

“Nah mate,” says Derrick. “He don’t mean me.”

Eggsy looks back at the cab, and yeah, there it is. The guy’s looking straight at him. Aw, fuck.

“It’s rather cold out there. Are you getting in?” asks the man inside the cab. He’s shuffled over to the other side so Eggsy can get in. Eggsy takes his time, swaggers up to the car with a bit of a swing in his hips. The cab driver looks bored, like he does this sort of thing all the time.

“Depends. Can you pay?” asks Eggsy, slouching against the cab door with his hip jutted out as if the guy’s tie alone didn’t cost more than everything Eggsy’s wearing right now.

The bloke sighs, draws a wallet out from his inside pocket and opens it enough for Eggsy to see the fifty pound notes inside. Who even carries fifty pound notes around? On the other hand, his alternative is getting his back scratched open, and he might even have enough after tonight for a deposit on a flat for his mum if he bumps his prices up a bit. And that’s enough to convince him.

“No worries mate, I’ll make it worth your while,” says Eggsy, and winks before he slides himself in and shuts the door behind him. At least the cab’s warm.

“Back to the shop, please,” says the gent. Wanting to fuck around in a workplace isn't even close to the weirdest thing Eggsy had done.

They sit in silence for a moment. "I can take care of myself, you know," says Eggsy, because it feels like this guy was trying to rescue him.

"Of course you can," says the gent, and leaves it at that. Eggsy settles for staring at the back of the driver's head. The glass separating the front from the back is mirrored and black, and it takes Eggsy a moment to think, hang on, that ain’t normal. Shit.

Eggsy slides around in his seat so he can face the guy, eyes wide. His eyes flicker sideways to the lock on the cab door, and as if on cue, it flicks over to locked. Well. Double shit. Out of the frying pan and into the fire and all that.

“I am terribly sorry about this,” says the bloke, who actually looks apologetic when he pulls out a hanky. Eggsy flinches when he reaches towards him, but somehow the guy dodges his flailing arms, and presses the hanky against his face. Eggsy inhales to yell -- fuck, bad move, he can smell the chemicals now, this is probably the shit they use to send people to sleep in films except it’s not like that in real life.

Eggsy struggles to get away, his hands pushing at solid chest that won’t fucking budge, his back rammed against the cab door, but the guy is stronger than he looks, and every panicked breath Eggsy takes by accident goes straight to his head; it’s like getting drunk but in less than a minute. Fuck, is this what getting a spiked drink feels like? He can feel himself clawing at his awareness, trying to keep his wits together but they keep floating off, until his fingers are just brushing at the fabric of the guy’s shirt instead of pushing him off, and then... gone.

*

It’s bright when Eggsy wakes up and he groans. Musta forgotten to pull the curtains closed last night; he’s got really dark, heavy ones because he works nights (ha!) now and he was going to actually fucking die if he got woken up by the sun every morning.

He rolls over and smashes his face into the pillow, and it’s the weird fresh sheets smell that makes him wake up. His bed smells of him. It’s supposed to, because he spends enough fucking time drowning in beds that don’t, which means this ain’t his bed. Eggsy cracks open his eyes, wary of the light, looks across the bed, which is empty apart from him, and remembers what happened. Or what... didn’t.

Eggsy subtly stretches his shoulders, tenses his muscles. Leans his weight onto his back. Nothing hurts. Nothing pulls, like after a night of someone being too rough. He can’t feel stubble burn anyway, or... or anything. He sits up. His jeans are draped over a chair in the corner; he’s still wearing his t-shirt and he’s also wearing underwear, which means it ain’t his. Also, his dad’s medallion is hanging outside his shirt, which is weird.

Shoes are nowhere to be found, but Eggsy grabs at his phone and keys on the bedside table, pulling his jeans on as quick as he can. There’s also four fifty pound notes neatly up next to them and he hesitates for all of about five seconds before he grabs that too. He’s got one leg in his jeans when he looks out the window, and it takes two seconds for him to figure out what he’s seeing because what the fuck.

Grass. Fucking grass. Everywhere. He’s on like the third floor or something and the side of the building looks absolutely swank and apart from that, it is just grass in every direction. And then when the grass finishes there are trees. This ain’t London.

He grabs for his phone, clicks open his Google maps app. No signal. Like, not even no 4G signal, no signal at all.

Eggsy takes off at a run, pulling the door open so hard it slams back against the door. There’s a corridor lined with windows on one side and doors on the other and if it were dark, this would be a horror movie, no jokes. But the sun in shining and the carpet is soft under his bare feet and when he gets to the door at the end and flings it open, there’s a lush living room set-up instead of a creepo with a set of knives.

“Good morning,” someone says and Eggsy absolutely does not fucking scream his head off. He totally doesn’t. “I take it you slept well?”

“What the fucking fuck,” says Eggsy, whirling around until he finds the body to go with the voice.

It’s the bloke from last night, looking immaculately put together. He folds up the newspaper he was reading -- The Sun, of all things -- and leaves it next to his cup of tea on the side. “I am sorry about last night. My name is Harry Hart. And you. You are Eggsy. I checked.” He inclines his head, and Eggsy looks down at himself automatically, where the medallion is still dangling over his t-shirt. He tucks it back in.

“You knew my dad,” says Eggsy after a long pause, because he might have been an idiot with shit A-levels who has no idea what the fuck is going on after being kidnapped and knocked out last night, but he’s not stupid.

“I did,” confirms Harry. He folds his hands across his lap and looks impressed. Good.

"So what the fuck is going on?" asks Eggsy, because he's not about to just blindly trust someone just because they said they knew his dad. It's not like Eggsy knew his dad, after all.

Harry waves at the chair opposite, and Eggsy lowers himself into it. "Tea?" asks Harry; Eggsy shrugs noncommittally, which he seems to take as a yes, and pours out a cup for Eggsy. "Again, I must apologise. It wasn't my intention to make myself known, but I don't think you missed out terribly on that awful man's company." Harry levels him a look, and Eggsy just knows somehow that Harry knows far more than he's letting on.

"Well yeah," says Eggsy defensively. "I weren't about to get into his car because he's Prince Charming. Work is work, you know?" He picks up his cup of tea, more for something to hide behind than because he wants to drink it.

Harry nods, and it's the lack of judgement that's making Eggsy even more uncomfortable than normal. "Hence the compensation for your interrupted night," he says, "Is it enough?"

Eggsy's not about to tell him that it's probably a week's worth of bad shags and sloppy blowjobs that leave his jaw aching. "Yeah. S'enough."

Harry nods, satisfied. "If you would like breakfast before you go home, there's some under the cloche."

"The what?"

Harry points at the metal dome cover thing over a plate, which is apparently what a cloche is, and Eggsy peeks underneath it. Full English breakfast, still hot, brill.

"If you're gonna fuck me, I'd prefer to eat afterwards," he says honestly; vigorous sex on a full stomach is going to make his stomach feel weird for the rest of the day.

Harry fumbles as he puts his cup down on the edge of the saucer instead of the middle, and it makes a clanging noise before he manages to get everything back into place. "No, no, I'm not going to -- I think you may have misunderstood, Eggsy."

Eggsy blinks. Yeah, he fucking has. "You already paid me," he points out.

"Yes, I -- I mean, no, that was for the, well, the kidnapping," says Harry.

There's a long pause. "I should get kidnapped more often then," says Eggsy.

Harry laughs softly. "Please don't. In any case, there will be no fucking," he says firmly.

"Shame," says Eggsy, and it is. He reckons he wouldn't have minded sex with this one; he feels like he'd be considerate.

When he's done with the food, Harry gets up when he does, and leads him out. His shoes have magically appeared outside the door and he crams his feet into them before padding after Harry. The place seems pretty empty, though he occasionally hears noises through the millions of doors they walk past; the only person they actually see is a bald guy with glasses and a jumper who walks past them, looks straight at Eggsy, and goes "Hmmm," before carrying on.

Eggsy definitely wants to ask about where he is and what the fuck this place is, but honestly he'll settle for getting back home without getting shanked right now. That is, until they get downstairs and Harry asks him to sit on some chair in a strange pod thing that turns out to be a fucking bullet train, of all things.

"Where're we now?" asks Eggsy, when they're in a lift that's decked out so it looks like a mini vintage living room -- which makes so much more sense when they finally reach the ground floor and it turns out it actually is a mini vintage living room thing.

"London," says Harry airily, like it's totally normal to be out in the country one mo and in central London the next. "There's a cab outside, it'll take you home."

There is a cab, the same one with the same driver from the looks of it, and Harry sees him inside. Eggsy looks back; they've just come out of a tailor's shop called Kingsman, and he's definitely going to look it up when he gets home, and Harry reaches out, and squeezes his shoulder. "I know there's a lot I haven't explained," says Harry quietly, "But I would recommend that you don't look too much into it. I wasn't meant to get in touch with you, and I wouldn't have if it didn't seem like you were in trouble." He looks serious, and Eggsy knows that's not the sort of look he's gonna mess with.

"A'ight," he says. "I can keep my mouth shut." Eggsy goes home, two hundred pounds richer. He'll go back to working the streets, because it'll pay the rent on the place he's planning to rent for his mum and the baby, and he's not expecting to see Harry Hart ever again. And really that should have been the end of it.

It wasn't, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://defractum.tumblr.com)!


End file.
